


Laughter Lines

by skyseeker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Stanford, Swearing, Underage Drinking, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyseeker/pseuds/skyseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys, one car, and a hell of a journey. They started as friends, and now they're... something else. Sam and Dean's story of how they came to be. Inspired by Bastille's song "Laughter Lines".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just reaching dawn when you realize you're in love with him.  
> (Note: the time and setting jumps between different chapters. Make sure to keep the year in mind.)

 

 

01- dawn

_January 1st, 1999_

* * *

 

It's just reaching dawn when you realize you're in love with him. _Shit._  

He's fallen asleep on your shoulder, the sunlight illuminating his beautiful features that are slack and content in the depths of unconsciousness, and you realize. It hits you like you've fallen off a building and just met the pavement below: he's your best friend, and you're in love with him.

You feel like you're floating, dizzy and disoriented but hovering just above the cold-ass hood of your home (a beautiful, dependable, but ultimately terrible insulator of a car), balanced on a fuzzy cloud of warmth and comfort. You're _in love with him_.

The little things, you conclude, are the things that make you decide to wrap your leather-clad arms around him: how he's curled up against you, so close you can hear his steady heartbeat, how his tangled mop of hair falls over his face, illuminated by the sun breaching over the mountains in the distance. Maybe you're just concerned he'll freeze out here, in the chilly January weather, in the barely-morning dew-ridden climate of Maine. Maybe it's the whiskey you shared earlier in the night, sharing glances between each other as you slowly gravitated towards him with each drink you downed. It feels so damn _right_ , him here in your arms, sound asleep, safe from any harm that could come his way.

It's just reaching dawn when you realize you're in love with him. And you resolve, no matter how hard it may be to keep these things inside, you'll never tell him.


	2. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's mid-morning when you wake with a start and realize that he's gone.

02- morning

_January 22nd, 2001_

* * *

  _Inhale, exhale._

Your cold, bare feet smacking the pavement, heels aching, toes blistering, legs numb.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Running, sprinting, going as fast as you possibly can, cold wind stinging the bare skin on your shoulders.

_Inhale, exhale. Breathe._

Scorching lungs, pounding headache, raw throat; swollen eyes and wet cheeks.  

_Gasp- breathe in- breathe out._

You will your legs to move faster, just a bit faster, farther away.

_“I-I can’t stay here.” He said, tears streaming down his face._

Throbbing, longing heart, pounding so hard you think it might burst from your chest.

_“Please…please, don’t go, Sam_.” _You begged._

Gone. He’s _gone._

_..._

You’d woken with a start, shivering, lying face-down on the cold linoleum floor of the kitchen. Soaked in sweat and liquor, your body _ached_ with every movement.

Forcing yourself upright, you groaned in agony. Your head pounded, a surge of pain so intense you nearly blacked out. _Fuck_. This was gonna be a bitch of a hangover.

Looking around, the floor was littered by crushed cans of beer, glass fragments of a broken whiskey bottle like an exclamation mark.  

_“I’m sorry…”_

_“Don’t do this to me. Please.”_

You were on your feet in an instant. Something- _something_ was wrong. Trembling from a cause other than the cold, you shook yourself from your daze when, suddenly, the pieces fell together.

The door was hanging wide open.

_Sam’s gone._

Without a second thought to your shoes or coat, you burst through the unlatched door and _run_. If only...you could reach him...he’s somewhere out there. You’ve got to get him home.

...

_Sam_.

Your cold, bare feet smacking the pavement, heels aching, toes blistering, legs numb.

_Sammy_.

Running, sprinting, going as fast as you possibly can, cold wind stinging the bare skin on your shoulders.

_Sam, Sam, Sam..._

Scorching lungs, pounding headache, raw throat; swollen eyes and wet cheeks.

_Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe..._

You double over, knees buckling, falling to the dirt next to the road.

...

It all comes rushing back to you and you’re on the ground, heaving and sobbing. The memories and liquor and regrets come rising up your throat and out through your mouth, what you could’ve said but didn’t, leaves you feeling emptier than ever.

He isn’t coming home.

...

_Breathe, Dean._

You pull yourself out of the dirt and make your way back home.

_Inhale_.

The morning comes to an end with you downing shot after shot ‘till you forget who you are.

_Exhale_.


	3. Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the fourth of July, and nothing will be the same ever again.

03- past

_July 4th, 1999_

* * *

 

you’ve been on this earth twenty years, but it’s not until tonight that your life really begins  

 

here together with Sammy, _your_ Sam, and the energy crackling between the both of you nearly palpable

 

two bodies, yours and his.

 

the breathless summer twilight glow; the straining light of the setting sun

 

fireworks, empty thrown out beer bottles; whiskey murmurs and starlight gazes  

 

sparklers crackling, he’s got a grin from ear to ear and somehow deep inside you feel warmer than the heat of the summer air

 

you watch the sky explode as your worlds collide

 

caught sideways glances, long pauses; it’s been this way forever

 

in the past, it never came to anything; but this is now, you think

 

your breath hitches, god the way he’s looking at you right now

 

you get lost in the stars in his hazel eyes and you feel yourself leaning in

 

you’re close, so close, you’re brushing your lips against his; god, those bright hazel eyes disappear behind his eyelids and you’re _kissing_ him.

 

your mouths press together again, this time with purpose, with intent; his lips are so soft and just the perfect temperature, and suddenly it’s all you ever want, more than life, just him and you and nothing else

 

his warm, pliant lips; soft and wet and it sends shivers down your spine. you could die from this holy shit

  
you pull away for just a few seconds to whisper in a hushed voice, ragged and breathless, as if any measure of volume would shatter this fragile moment-

 

“happy 4th, sammy.”


	4. Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been hours since he last answered your calls. You've probably left hundreds of voicemails at this point.

04- hours

_March 3rd, 2001_

* * *

It’s been hours since he last answered one of your calls. Sitting with your teeth clenched, shaking on the edge of a creaky bed in some musty old motel room, you’ve probably left hundreds of voicemails by now. Dialing his number again and again, desperately trying to get the last word in an argument that’s been over since last week.

You sit and hear the sickeningly familiar buzz of the dial tone, your stomach churning as it goes straight to his answering machine. 

" _Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. 281-903-5768 is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options._ "

There's a stilling silence before the tone, your mouth dry and sour. 

"Sam," is all you can manage. 

An eternity passes. 

Before you can say anything else, the message automatically times out. You hear a click, then silence. 

Slowly, you flip your phone closed, gripped tightly in your trembling hands. 

 

Fingers twitching, you curse and cave in to the urge to dial his number again. _He'll pick up sometime. He has to pick up._

 

"Sam, just listen to me, goddamnit-" 

_Click_. 

You force yourself to breathe. _This can't be happening_. 

Punching his number in, you mouth a silent as the dial tone rings once, twice...

Your heartbeats come faster and faster, the dizzying thoughts rushing through your brain- 

" _Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. 281-903-5768 is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options._ ". 

"We can work this out, just pick up, please, Sam. I'm begging you here. Call me."

_Click_. 

 

"Jesus...I know what happened wasn't okay, but please just talk to me."

_Click._

"I'm fucking sorry, okay, Sam? I can't do this. I don't _want_ to do this, not alone. Just...God, _please_ pick up."

_Click._

"Sammy, please, I'm sorry. Don't leave me alone. I'm so sorry." 

_Click_. 

"Fuck!"

_Click_.

 

Running a hand through your hair, you let out a long sigh. It's been hours since he answered. He's probably changed his number by now. 

One more call, you decide. 

 

" _Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. 281-903-5768 is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options._ "

Shaking, you let the phone slip from your hands and onto the mildewed carpet under your feet. 

He doesn't care anymore. 

 

In a flurry of movement, you lunge for the whiskey on the nightstand and strut across the motel room, snatching your jacket on the way out the door. Almost like you had to move before you change your mind. 

 

...

 

You've been driving for hours now, taking a generous swig of the burning liquid when the pain gets to be too much. It's getting hard to focus now, the whiskey dulling you. 

The road ahead of is dark and murky, and despite the foglights you can't really see farther than a few feet ahead of you. It doesn't bother you, though. The speedometer hasn't once dropped below 50 since you slumped behind the wheel. 

You grit your teeth, forcing the pedal down harder. The Impala's engine roars, sending a shiver down your spine. Faster, faster you go, the speedometer's needle climbing dangerously quickly. 

Another car's headlights come out of nowhere, blinding you.

You swerve, trying to get out of the way, but the momentum of your car is enough to send you spiraling across the road. 

 

There's a car horn blast. Tires squealing, and a deafening explosion of noise. 

Everything goes black. 


End file.
